


From the Shores of Avalon

by lavinia_gray



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Apocalypse, Dark!Merlin, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-07-31
Packaged: 2018-07-28 13:52:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7643137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lavinia_gray/pseuds/lavinia_gray
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin has been waiting for Arthur for hundreds of years. He has lost everyone he loves and still his king has not returned. After centuries of waiting, Merlin finally decides to take matters into his own hands. If Arthur will not rise in order to save Albion, then Merlin will just have to damn it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Shores of Avalon

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I have ever written/published so I'm a bit new to all of this. I've written only a small piece of this story and don't know if I'll finish it or not, but I thought I might share it anyway. Thanks so much for reading!

 The first thing he's aware of is the cold. The icy grip of the water around him forces his eyes to open and he finally realizes that he can’t breathe. Oh God, he can’t breathe. His mouth opens in a vain attempt and he's rewarded with a gulp of icy water. Struggling for breath, he viciously kicks his legs to get to the surface. They feel like lead as he uses them to propel upward and squints his eyes to mitigate the sting of the water. His lungs burn with the strain and he realizes that he's so far beneath the surface that the light doesn't even penetrate the water. Finally after what feels like hours of kicking, he sees a ray of light shining through. Gathering his resolve and the last of his strength, he pushes on.

The water splashes around him when he mercifully breaks the surface and he only has a moment of reprieve before he feels the water surging through his the throat as his body tries to expel the foreign substance. He coughs violently and heaves until he can breathe again. The sweet taste of air finally reaches his lungs and he gulps wildly, trying to take in as much as possible. His heart is beating erratically in his chest from the lack of oxygen and blood is rushing to his ears. His body still burns with the strain of the swim and he treads water for a moment to try and catch his breath. He can see his exhales as they leave his mouth and his body finally begins to shiver because of the frigid air. He distantly thinks that if he stays in the water much longer, he's going to catch his death.

He surveys his surroundings, and can’t quite recognize the foliage surrounding the water. He seems to be in the middle of a lake, that much is obvious, but his knowledge stops there. Trees surround the body of water and there is a slight fog above the surface hiding any hint of a shoreline. The branches are bare of any leaves and sway in the ominous wind almost beckoning him to venture into the mist.

He tries to swim to the shore and finds that his chainmail is weighing him down. He suddenly misses the weightlessness the water previously provided despite the chill. He knew his legs were tiring from the strain from keeping him afloat and that if he was going to make it to shore, he had to do it know before his body gave up on him. Despite the fact that his is chest felt as if it had doubled in weight, he struggles against the water and pumps his legs.

He pushes forward and feels his muscles burn. His body vehemently protests to the cold water and exercise, but he knows that if he stopped he wouldn't be able to find the resolve to start swimming again. Seconds stretched into minutes and minutes began to feel like hours. The only thought that keeps him going is the impending shapes of the trees that adorn the shore. When he enters the shallow end of the lake, his boots touch the muddy undergrowth and he feels instant relief. His muscles relax and he’s suddenly never felt so lethargic in his life. His legs refuse to move, but he pushes one leg in front of the other until he reaches land.

He arrives at the shore and pushes on into the forest. He has no idea where he is, but he is starting to feel an inkling in the back of his mind, something that feels familiar.

He keeps walking. He’s starting to feel the cold again. His hair is plastered to his forehead and his pants are sticking to his legs. The hauberk that had already given him so much trouble is making him shiver. He knows that he can’t last much longer. He can see his breath in the air and his soaked underclothes aren’t helping matters.

His exhaustion finally catches up with him and his legs give out. He vaguely registers the pain of his knees hitting the ground, but he’s too drained to care. His chest followed in suit and he succumbs to the fatigue.

As he falls back into unconsciousness, he can only remember one thing.

Merlin.

XXX

“What the fuck do you mean you can’t find him?”

“I’m sorry my lord, we looked everywhere.”

A second man gulped. “We beg your pardon my lord,” he said. “We’re still scouring the forest in search of him.”

Merlin was seething. He knew Arthur was alive; he could feel him. As soon as he took his first breath, it was as if Merlin’s lungs had been filled with air. His blood sang at the return of his king and Merlin knew this was the moment he’s been working towards for hundreds of years.

In a fit of anger, Merlin’s eyes flashed gold. The second man’s eyes widened and his hands grasped at his throat. He took fast and shallow inhales as if there were a pair of hands around his throat. The second man watched on in horror as he fell to his knees and his body went limp.

“The next man who fails me will suffer the consequences,” Merlin said in a low and dangerous voice. “Bring him to me.”

The man nodded and lowered his eyes. “My lord.”

Merlin stood from his throne and exited the room. Mercenaries and servants parted around him, wary of his temper. Merlin arrived at his chamber a short moment later and shut the door forcefully. He pressed his back against the wood and slid to the floor.

He sighed loudly and pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes. Arthur’s presence was like a string around his heart. It tugged gently and begged for his attention, but every time he pressed his magic forward to look for him, it was as if the other end was lost in a fog. His hands shook with anger at his situation. He had given his life for this moment; Arthur was just within reach, and he was still so far away. He hadn’t been this hopeful in centuries, not even since Arthur’s death. He took a deep breath and wrapped his arms around his middle willing himself to calm down. His plan had worked, Arthur had come back.

He had waited centuries for Arthur’s return. After his death, Merlin had refused to go back to Camelot. Despite the pleas Guinevere and Gaius had relayed, he just couldn’t face the empty hallways and rooms that once held his beloved king. He’d travelled to Essetir to see his mother instead. She’d found him grief stricken and broken, a shell of the man he had become in Camelot. He spent many nights curled at her breast sobbing at the loss of his king. She’d shushed him and stroked his head, whispering words of comfort to him about how it wasn’t his fault, how he did everything he could, how he hadn’t failed. But he knew the truth, no matter what Kilgharrah had said, no matter what his destiny had foretold, he had failed his king. Arthur was dead, magic was a dying entity compared to what it once was, and the golden age of Camelot was a mirage that would never be reached, not without Arthur.

And so Merlin grieved. He grieved for Arthur, the man he had loved, the man he had failed. He watched his mother die that winter, her eyes still as youthful as they had been the day he left for Camelot. She succumbed to a sweating sickness and for all his magic, he couldn’t save her. As she lay on her deathbed Merlin could only feel the sickening feeling of failure again.

After her death, he travelled. His wanderings took him all over Albion and across the Seas of Meredor. He saw so much of the world and could only feel the emptiness that Arthur had left in his heart. The world seemed like a cheap imitation of what it once was and slowly Merlin became a mockery of what he used to be.The world seemed to pass in blurs. He saw the rise and fall of empires, the invasion of the Romans, the metal revolution, the war of the worlds and with each passing disaster his hope lessened that his king would awaken from his sleep. It seemed that no matter the plight that plagued Albion, Arthur would would never return. And so after the second World War he realized that nothing could rouse Arthur. Thousands had died and he still slept on. Merlin could feel his hope diminish after the war ended. No amount of destruction would bring his king back.

It didn’t occur to him until almost half a century later that his king may never come back. When he truly considered that idea he almost went completely mad, begging whatever gods were left in the world to give him back his king. When his cries went (yet again) unheeded, he lost the last bit of sanity he had preserved over the centuries. His sorrow turned to an unbridled rage. His magic bubbled beneath his fingers, awake after so many centuries of sleep. Merlin resolved to get his king back regardless of the consequences. He wrought destruction on the world. Earthquakes, tsunamis, volcanoes, war, famine, and pestilence swept the globe. The world was mired in chaos and suffering.  
While the world fell to it’s knees, Merlin rose. His powers grew as he created his empire. He petitioned magic users from all around the globe, telling of the same future he was promised as a young man: a golden age of magic created by the once and future king. People flocked to his cause, hoping for salvation. Merlin relayed his message, that the only way to bring back the king was to plunge Albion into darkness. His followers led the charge along with him, and the world became a hellscape of suffering.

Thousands died and the world was left to rot. It was not until a century later when the planet was on it’s last dregs of life that Merlin felt it: a spark in his chest unlike anything he’d felt before. His magic went wild at the sensation, clawing at him, trying to let him know that it had worked: Arthur had returned.

Merlin knew that Arthur was alive, he could feel him. His magic was roaring, begging for it’s other half, and Merlin couldn’t help but feel a spark of hope within his chest.

He stood and removed his cloak, shivering at the chill of the room. He forgot how cold the castle rooms could be.

After he had begun his assault on Albion, Merlin decided it was time to return to Camelot. When he arrived, he had found her in ruins from the years of neglect. He called upon his magic, kneeled to the ground, and let it flow through him, familiar and strong. The walls rose, springing from the ground, and she was restored to her former glory as the crown jewel of Albion. After all, Arthur deserved a warm welcome home.

Merlin looked out the window adjacent to the bed which once held the beautiful view of the city of Camelot. All that was left of the lower town was ashes and despair. He felt a glimmer of sadness at his cruelty, but that was quickly crushed by his overwhelming desire to see Arthur again.

He had lost everything. Everyone he had ever loved was taken from him and he was cruelly left on this earth with nothing but an empty promise that his king would return. Merlin no longer felt remorse for the destiny he was promised, only anger.


End file.
